Chapter 26
The pieces in the puzzle were coming together, Isaac could see that. Down in Cornwall, Jim Greenwood was performing well, as was Wally Vincent in Brighton. Soon enough, somebody, somewhere, would make the connection, or else one of the murderers would make a mistake.
Hamish McIntyre was out in his mansion, Samantha at his side; Gareth Armstrong not far away.
Gareth updated Hamish on his conversation with Jacob Wolfenden, omitting that he had roughed the man up.
Bridget set up a phone conference, dialled in Greenwood and Vincent. The team were in the conference room at Challis Street.
‘I’ve not given up down here,’ Greenwood said. ‘I’ve still got some ground to cover although nobody in Polperro seems to know very much. Mrs Venter, the last person to see Liz Spalding alive, believes she did see another woman.’
‘Did you follow Palmer after he left the village?’ Larry asked.
‘As best I could. He revisited his brother’s grave, spoke to the vicar.’
‘Did you speak to him?’
‘Not directly. I spoke to the man’s wife. He was at a seminary for a couple of days.’
‘Then it may be a good idea to go back,’ Isaac said. ‘Have a chat with the man, see what Palmer told him.’
‘I wouldn’t write him off,’ Greenwood said. ‘He’s not going to leave this alone.’
‘We’ve got another one down in Brighton. Wally Vincent is looking after him.’
‘Since his return, the man’s been a model citizen,’ Vincent said. ‘Almost affable.’
‘What do you reckon, Wally?’ Wendy said. ‘Is he holding something in reserve?’
‘You’d never know with Stanford, a smart man, deep, thinks things through.’
‘If Hamish McIntyre hears of these two, their lives won’t be worth living,’ Larry said.
‘We still need to go visit the man,’ Isaac said. ‘How do you confront a man and accuse him of making a phone call to Stanford when we have no proof?’
‘A dangerous customer,’ Greenwood said, ‘from what Larry was telling me.’
‘He is. We’re Palmer’s best protection. If he knows something that we don’t, he’d better tell us, leave it to us.’
‘Coming back to Stanford,’ Larry said. ‘He told us that he believed that McIntyre was the person who phoned him. Wally, any reason to think he knows more?’
‘I don’t think so. The man’s talkative enough at the present moment. I don’t want him to clam up, just keeping it friendly for now.’
‘No complaints to your superintendent about harassing him? Wendy asked.
‘None at all, and the superintendent even patted me on the back the other day, told me what a good job I was doing and to keep him updated.’
‘Promotion in the offing?’ Larry said.
‘Who knows?’
‘Let’s get back to a plan of action,’ Isaac said. ‘We need to find Palmer and fast. Jim, stay with Stanford, maintain a cordial relationship with him. Although he did manage to get up to the third floor in Bedford Gardens on his last visit.’
‘You don’t suspect him, do you?’
‘Not at this time. Jim, get back to the vicar, find out what Palmer may have told him.’
‘I’ll make a trip up to Oxford, meet with Palmer again,’ Larry said.
‘Normally I would agree with you,’ Isaac said. ‘But this time you’d better focus on Palmer, see if he’s in the area.’
‘I’ll check out Palmer’s house,’ Wendy said.
‘I could do with a few hours out of the office,’ Isaac said. ‘I’ll go with you.’
***
Jim Greenwood was the first to act. Even though it was midday and it was a long drive, he was in the car and out to where Stephen Palmer was buried. He found the vicar tending to his vegetables in the small garden at the back of the vicarage. The vicar’s wife was in the kitchen.
‘How can I help you, Inspector?’ the vicar said.
Greenwood had not met the man before. ‘I spoke to your wife the last time. She said that Bob Palmer had been up here.’
‘I found him by the grave, trying to tidy up around it. It’s dreadful how people neglect their loved ones after a few years. I try to do my best, pick up the occasional weed here and there, but I can’t do it all, not any more.’
‘I’m sure those in your care understand,’ Greenwood said. He wasn’t much of a churchgoer, and when his time came, it would be a cremation, his ashes thrown into the river and those mourning him down to the pub, a few drinks on him.
‘I like to think they do,’ the vicar said. ‘But how can I help you? What more can I tell you that my wife hasn’t?’
‘The minor details can be crucial. The man may have said something, asked you something seemingly obscure; but to us, it may be significant.’
The two men sat down on garden chairs.
The vicar’s wife, a comely woman, round and short with rosy cheeks and a pleasant smile, put a couple of cups of tea on the table, a plate of home-made scones with jam and cream. ‘They're freshly baked,’ she said. ‘As good as you get anywhere in the West Country.’
Greenwood, partial to a scone, applied the jam and cream generously; so did the vicar. The two men sat quietly for a couple of minutes. A robin flew by, a thrush gave its melodious song.
‘We get deer at the bottom of the garden in winter,’ the vicar said. ‘They’ve got used to us now, and we always try to give them something to eat. Never get too close to them, though, no chance of hand feeding.’
Greenwood felt at ease. The vicarage, a two-storey building, more than three hundred
